Second Half
by Liebling
Summary: ‘Only one person would’ ve rather died in his place--don't act so surprised, you know it’ s you.’ Draco&Pansy. Odd and angst-y. ;)


*  
  
When you sign up for this thing that they 'call' life they don't tell you a lot of things. They don't tell you that there will be long days filled with sorrow and misery. They don't tell you that people shall betray you at every corner and laugh behind your back. They don't tell you that you will be lied to and made a fool of more times than once. They don't tell you that at times you shall be rather lonely in a dark dark corner.  
  
And they don't tell you that you shall find true friendship.   
  
This true friendship, well, it's true--but it's silly too. It's brutally honest and brutally just about everything. This person named affectionately your 'second half' is the best sort you COULD fine but not necessarily the BEST sort.  
  
He's a nice kid, really. No, no he's not. Actually, he's an awful specimen filled with hateful thoughts and rude words.   
  
Again shall I impress on you the fact that he's the best sort you could find.  
  
When you met him you were young. The sort of young that doesn't know anything. No, no that's impossible you always knew something...you knew you'd always marry him. Even when you were eleven. It's a wickedly silly thing to believe in--'love' and all that jazz, but at least it's something to believe in.  
  
You hold hands when no one's looking and he kisses your eyelashes when everyone's looking. It's a nice thing. He calls you names and you call him names and you think if possible it's the truest thing you've ever experienced.  
  
It perfectly emulates the human spirit at its worse and at its best. At times, you find him a nazi with no soul about him...at times you're correct.  
  
You make gingerbread houses together around Christmas time and his house is always better than yours. His looks nice and polished and the frosting is always perfectly spread.  
  
You're jealous.  
  
That's one heck of a gingerbread house.  
  
You walk back to the common room, arm in arm and you're throwing your head back and giggling and he's sneering at the first years.  
  
It's just one of those things.  
  
He never lets you borrow his cloak out in Herbology. Even if you're freezing cold and he's got a nice velvet-lined cloak on. So you freeze and shudder and sometimes your hands turn to a pretty pale ice sculpture. He sighs and rubs his hand against yours and it warms it up a bit.  
  
You still want that cloak.  
  
You swear on your life that at one point in your life you will get him to let you borrow his cloak.  
  
You two talk. A lot. A lot more than anyone would ever give you credit for. The Heavens, the sky, the moon, the stars, your Fathers, your Mothers, your manors, your lives, your books, your love lives...but that talk never lasts long. It goes something like that; let me refresh your memory:  
  
"Yes, I am dating Blaise." You say, your voice clear like crystal.  
  
"I hate him." He says, his voice is laden with loathing and malice.  
  
"I know," you whisper.  
  
...you hate him too.  
  
And he snogs random girls in the commons and in his dormitory and you can't bear seeing it. I mean...ewww they're Ravenclaws. Couldn't he snog a Slytherin for once?  
  
...he couldn't.  
  
So you sigh, roll your eyes and storm out of the common room. Your nose is about to poke the sky it's up so far.  
  
Then one day he dies.  
  
It's a horrendous death but then again---his whole life was suffering anyway. You like to think that the parts he spent with you weren't so much suffering.  
  
...you aren't sure what to think.  
  
You're sorry but you're still you with his sweet words and just his words, in general, in your mind. You're sorry, but you're still okay and your nose is still in the air. You wear the velvet headband he always hated on the day of the funeral. And it's one of those "Heh. I'll show you!" Sort of things. You're sorry and you're sort of sad but you aren't really sad.  
  
You hate to admit that part of you; a very small part lived for him. His energy. His touch. His gingerbread houses. His insults.  
  
Part of you, however, did not. Part of you hated him with a burning passion unbeknownst to the rest of the world. Part of you wanted him to die a painful death (and you said that...many times, actually.) Part of you thought he looked awful with his cigar.  
  
So you're in a mix of emotions that we like to call---life.  
  
It's not particularly nice but it's fine.  
  
You go to the funeral and tons of people are there and only one of those people really loved him--you. Only love of those people ever saw him crying--you. Only one of those people ever saw his gingerbread house making talent--you. Only one person would've rather died in his place--don't act so surprised, you know it's you.  
  
As you look at the sky it's gusty and charcoal gray wish small raindrops that litter the fresh mud and green grass. It was just like your first kiss with him, the weather was just like this on the Astronomy Tower.  
  
He loved this sort of weather. Said it was 'stunning.'  
  
You sigh--a long sigh--and go up towards the coffin you take a long deep breath and kiss the pearl coffin. A gentle kiss and your ebony hair touches the pearl coffin and it makes a lovely scene.  
  
Everyone's looking on with baited breath...why? Because you were supposed to break down.  
  
And you whisper to it in a hushed voice, "the sky's for you Mon Petit Celui."  
  
He used to always call you 'Mon Petit Celui'  
  
It means 'my little one.' You really were his little one.  
  
You take a step away and sit down upon the grass, his coffin's right next to you. It's an eerie type of thing...you aren't ready to see him go.  
  
So you sit near 'him' which really isn't HIM and you smile.  
  
No tears are filling your ruby eyes and your eyelashes are dark with mascara, your cheeks are dark red from being whipped by the wind.  
  
And you're okay.  
  
But you've lost your second half.  
  
And you know what they always say...when you lose your second half...your soul gives 'way.  
  
* 


End file.
